


I Do Not Love the Bright Sword

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis Learns How Much People Change in a Few Short Years, Character studies, Everyone Has Some Subtle PTSD Going On, M/M, Season 3 E 1 Vignette, Some hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 05:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16382492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: “War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” - JRR TolkienWhen they meet again in the cellars of the monastery, Aramis discovers just how much the war has changed his old brothers-in-arms.





	I Do Not Love the Bright Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this floating around in my drafts folder for too long and just decided to stop fiddling with the idea of adding on any additional embellishments and just let it out into the world as is.

The men who find Aramis in the monastery cellar are not the same men who he left on the brink of war. In the half-shadows of the wine cellar, with Marie’s weight balanced on his hip, he watches them and wonders if it is his own fault. He has painted stories of his brothers for the little ones – woven their memories into moral lessons and tales of adventure.

Athos, an Achilles. Porthos, an Ajax. D’Artagnan, an Aeneas.

And maybe… Maybe those rosy rememberings have been distorted more than Aramis wishes to admit. He knows he has edited the manuscript of their shared history enough already, erased himself from the stories to become a nothing. Nameless onlooker.

They disappear and reappear in the shadows, moving among the light cast by the torches. His brothers faces are grim.

Four years can change so many things.

Aramis sits before them in his monk’s trappings and wonders what they must think of him – made vulnerable and soft by four years in the convent, shepherding children. “If our unwelcome guests are to be believed, there’s a Spanish convoy on its way here for that powder.” He bounces Marie on his knee. “They’ve killed the abbot and taken the priests into the inner chapel under armed guard. The monastery has no fortifications, no weapons – if the Spanish are coming, we need to be far away from here.”

It feels like so many words – too many – in the face of their silence. Three pairs of eyes considering. The tilt of a head. A whole language between them, silent signals developed to be read when words were impossible over the sound of cannon fire and musket shot. Whole conversations had with eyes and hands – body language making plans of attack as they scrabbled for their weapons in the dirt on the borders of France.

It’s a language that Aramis has not learned to speak with them.

D’Artagnan shifts his weight, hugging his elbows to his sides. Porthos shrugs.

The pronouncement is made – Athos's voice more worn down and wearied than Aramis has ever heard it before – they will wait until dark to move. It leaves them a few hours yet, waiting for the light to wane.

Athos sits for a time at Aramis’s side, a silent care-worn presence who watches the would-be monk with kind eyes. Strange, how war has made him sharper and in the same span, sobriety has made him softer. He is tired. More tired than he has ever seemed – wrung out and shattered. But – he is glad to see it and yet it breaks his heart to know how it must have been won with blood and heartache – there is something changed in Athos, something so like Treville it startles Aramis to see it.

The Father. The Commander.

He has settled into himself; the raw, ragged edges of the Comte, the Musketeer, the tragedy all smoothed down and fitted together. Become the man himself, steadier now.

“Give it time,” Athos promises him when Porthos turns away with his mouth hard and set and his dark eyes over-bright.

"I'm so glad to see you all," Aramis murmurs, shaking his head. And then, "he's so angry with me."

"He's not." There is something softer in Athos's voice, something faraway. In the dusty cellar light, his green eyes are pale, resting on Porthos's armored shoulders across the room as he paces, guarding their only exit. "He never could be – he's _hurt_. You have no idea how much he loved you. How much your leaving devastated him, Aramis."

"But—" Aramis hadn't meant it. He hadn't wanted anyone to be hurt. That had been the whole point of leaving, to prevent anyone else from being hurt because of him…

"I understand." Athos is a blunt, tight-lipped profile and Aramis is sure that of all people he does understand. Too well. The cheek turned toward him bears a new scar, a thin white line that bisects the fine crow's feet at the corners of Athos's eyes. "He understands too. That doesn't mean it hurt any less."

This last bit is delivered with just an edge of steel.

Chastened, Aramis cuts his eyes away. Twists his fingers in the hem of his torn habit. "You think he'll forgive me?"

The skin around Athos's eyes is tight. He presses at his temples with one hand, digs the knuckles of his first two fingers into the flat bridge of his nose. "He already has, Aramis." The familiar, nauseating throb has started in his left eye socket, worked its slow way up into his temple. He gets these headaches too often now. "It isn't a matter of forgiving you – it's a matter of licking reopened wounds and letting you know he thinks you're an ass."

"Am I an ass?" Aramis smirks. There is the Athos he remembers, with the oblique and cutting humor. His eyes are still hollow, the quirked line of his mouth still drawn thin.

"Indubitably."

Athos lurches to his feet, graceless, and sees faint spots of white across his vision. He is tired. So tired of things like headaches and captured supplies and dead men littered across the fields of France and Spain.

This war will be the death of them without a single bullet or sword thrust required.

He nudges D'Artagnan with the toe of his boot as he passes. The boy – who isn't a boy anymore, hasn't been for some time – has not been still since they settled here. Pats him wearily on the shoulder. _Rest_ , he doesn't have to say it aloud.

The Gascon's bright, sharp eyes find his and he nods. _Understood._ He goes back to playing with the children, their voices and eager rise and fall of whispers as he adds to their imaginations more tales of the Musketeer's adventures.

Bread to feed their men. Powder. Fresh bandages. Words have become another thing they had learned often to do without on the battlefield. Superfluous.

Porthos has the look of a guardian angel, watching over them all from his place in the alcove, silhouetted by the streaming light from the tunnel's hatch. He does not budge an inch, feet firmly planted, arms folded across his broad chest. Even without his vision dulled by the knot of pain in his head, Athos could read him better, though. Sees the unease in the frown between his eyebrows, the flare of his nostrils and the wildness of his eyes.

He props himself in the low doorway, studying Porthos.

Porthos studies him in return. Raises one curious, dark eyebrow.

"We are safe here." Athos makes his pronouncement barely above a murmur. And for all that there are mercenaries prowling the monastery's hallowed, holy corridors, he is right. This is the safest place they have come to rest in so many months. They can breathe here. For a moment, they can be still.

"For now." The serious expression, ill-suited to Porthos's warm face, does not change but his big arms unfold slowly and one gloved hand reaches out in offering.

"For now is enough."

Athos takes the hand, fairly collapsing into Porthos's broad front in a clattering of breastplates on gorgets. And he doesn't care how uncomfortable the armor is, how they both smell of acrid powder and heavy sweat, how there is grit clinging in Porthos's beard.

His skull fits perfectly into the juncture between head-and-shoulder and Porthos threads his fingers into Athos's too-thick, too-long curls with a shuddering sigh that weighs almost as much as the world and hauls him in close. Athos makes a low, unhappy noise against his neck.

"Your head?"

Athos nods against his chin.

"It's 'cause you think too much." Porthos takes his skull in both large hands and peels Athos away from his shoulder, smoothing the pads of his thumbs – smelling of leather and horse-sweat – over his temples, presses a tender kiss to the spot between his eyebrows.

"It's because neither of us has slept in two days."

But there is no protesting the point when Porthos drags him up onto his toes, crushing their mouths together. An imperfect press of lips and smashed noses and it isn't anything greater than a kiss – nothing carnal or hungry – and it's hardly romantic. Just the pair of them, clutched close and alive and relishing the shock of it.

Strange, to tremble at silence, that the absence of Spanish armies from the horizon line should make them so uneasy. To be frightened by a lack of canon fire and smoke.

What has war done – to make them afraid of peace?

"Come rest," Athos insists, his voice low and murmuring in the space between them as he smooths his hands up and down Porthos’s arms. "We have a few hours yet."

For a moment, Porthos simply squeezes him close, presses his nose into Athos's hair and breathes deeply. And then "a'right," he concedes, allowing himself to be drawn from the alcove by Athos’s insistent, tender hands. "A'right." They are safe for now, have bought themselves a few hours respite in this place. "You sit down and rest, I can keep an eye on things just as well with you snoring in my ear." But, with his hand wrapped in Athos's, his eyes stop darting and some of the over-alert sharpness starts to fade from the edges.

"I _don't_ snore," Athos snipes.

Porthos watches as his eyes rake over the low cellar with its few nooks and crannies. And there is a moment where it is all too clear on Athos's face, the naked worry. But in this place there is only Aramis to see them, a smattering of orphan children. D'Artagnan who knows plenty already. And so Porthos slouches down, his knee twinging cruelly, and braces himself between the wine casks and the wall. Hauls Athos along with him – tucks him into his side where he has slept every night of this wretched campaign after too many nights of cannon fire and trembling in their bedrolls.

"C'mon lovey."

Athos shuffles against him, settles into his side; a warm weight with his legs tangled across Porthos's and his head settled heavy on the broad chest, holding Porthos down, securing him in place lest he float away. They settle. Breathe. For short moments, the world is less bloody, less torn-apart and brutal.

Aramis – onlooker, outsider – watches.

He has known stranger things, to be sure. But – _Athos_ … _Porthos_ … How much has changed? How much of their lives has he not been privy to?

D’Artagnan paces between the barrels, scraping his palm against the fine scruff along his jaw. Still restless. Still unable to grow a proper beard. But war has filled out the breadth of his shoulders, has eased some of the stiffly offended pride in his spine.

He flashes dark eyes at Aramis. A silent smile.

Aramis is not sure how to ask all of the questions that vie for space in his too-tight chest. _What has happened to you all?_ and _did you miss me?_ and _when did you become these new people – forged on the edge of iron blades and powder shot and blood and weariness? You're so familiar and yet I fear I don't know you at all anymore._

_Will you still accept me as your brother?_

"When…?" A faint incline of his head. His voice is hoarse.

D'Artagnan follows his gaze, finds the huddle of armor and tangled limbs in the half-shadows. There is something soft in his face when he studies the pair of them, his brothers-in-arms. Something terribly fond and all too knowing. "Not long after our first engagement on the border."

The nightmares. Athos, vacant-eyed and unwilling to sleep. Shouldering a company's worth of lives. Porthos – stubborn and fierce and already sporting bruises to his bright, brilliant spirit – bullying his way into the captain's tent to find some measure of peace, to rest.

"They'll fall asleep anywhere now, if you give them a moment." D'Artagnan smiles and Aramis recognizes the sharpness in his eyes – sees his own mania, the hyper-alert sleeplessness reflected back at him from the days after Savoy. "I found them sleeping upright once, leaning against a tree." He huffs a quiet laugh at the memory even as it cuts a sharp wound behind Aramis's ribs. What have they suffered? What hellfire has he left them to? "Grabbing a bit of shut-eye on their feet in between skirmishes."

"Are they…?" Aramis, with his silver tongue, has never felt so inarticulate. So useless. All these careful, fragile things built without him.

D'Artagnan tucks his hands up into his armpits and shrugs. It isn't for him to say. "Maybe," he murmurs. The light has shifted, showing the soft curve of Porthos's cheek, the unhappy tightness of his mouth, the grim set of Athos's rough face. "Probably," he concedes.

Aramis waits.

"They're better with each other," D'Artagnan considers slowly. "They take care of one another. Fight better together. In a different way, I mean, then it is when it's me and Athos or when it was you and Porthos."

" _Amoureux dans les bras_ ," Aramis smiles. War suits them ill, but love? The fit is perfect, comfortably broken-in. "Lovers in arms."

D'Artagnan grins. He has missed him. They all have. Have felt the ache where Aramis should be – the raw place where wicked words and a marksman's perfect shot had been needed. "Will you come back with us?"

The _yes_ feels right, poised on the tip of his tongue. But Marie is heavy, asleep in his lap, and Aramis is shackled to God by a promise of penance due – he can't. Not for reckless boys and battered, world-weary tragedies and fierce, bright heroes. They are becoming strangers.

It breaks his heart.     

"You all get on fine without me," he says thickly. "I'm afraid I am needed here."

D'Artagnan says nothing. The boy has learned too much from Athos – has grown wiser than they give him credit for. No naïve farm boy any longer.

They sit in silence after that for some time. Aramis loses himself to old memories, to studying the careworn faces and considering their fates. D’Artagnan speaks to the children in low, gentle tones.

Eventually, Aramis watches as he pushes away from the wall, moves to find the lump of armor and curled up limbs in the gloom. Raps twice against the hard leather of Porthos's pauldron. Another silent conversation of nods and glances that – once upon a time – Aramis had been privy to. It is time.

In the adrenaline rush of the battle, Aramis sees with more clarity than he has in months. He remembers the brightness of fighting beside D'Artagnan, so quick and sharp. The joy that is having Porthos at his back, laughing in a blaze of musket fire. Athos and his calculating, the fine-point of skill and fury.

They remember.

He remembers.

Gradually, they relearn one another. Again, they come together – reforged, reformed, and made all the stronger for it.


End file.
